(This is the final chapter of the story. Many thanks to everyone who read and/or reviewed, as always it's much appreciated. There will be more stories in the Discipline 'verse coming up soon. Enjoy and see you soon-Brig)

"Huh." Greg closes the door on his friend. "He knew all along."

"We weren't exactly subtle." Gardener picks up plates and silverware and takes them into the kitchen just as the lights flicker. She comes back with a box of long matches. In silence she puts a couple of smaller logs on the fire, then lights a few candles around the room before she returns to Greg's side. "Just in case," she says, and settles in next to him.

"So efficient," he mocks, but he lets her take his hand.

"We have unfinished business." Gardener smiles at his groan. "You knew we'd have to talk."

"Can't it wait?" It's not quite a whine. "We talked about my dad and Wilson's dead girlfriend, that should be enough for the next couple of years at least."

"It doesn't work that way, as you well know." She gives his hand a little squeeze. "Tell me why you used a gag."

"You can't figure it out for yourself. Jeez, woman."

"I'm not interested in what I think. I want to know what you're thinking." She tilts her head a bit. "Was it all revenge, or did you have some other plot in that clever mind?"

"Revenge? Moi?" He gives her his best affronted glare.

"Oh yes. That little speech about leaving me there to go watch the game, that was nothing but payback for my putting a gag on you in our last session. Unless you tell me differently."

"I don't have to tell you anything, since you've got it all figured out." Greg frees his hand and moves away from her a little. "I need a beer." As the words leave his lips the power goes out. "Shit."

"If you want a cold brew you'd better get one now," Gardener says; she's amused, damn her. "I'll call PSE&G to report the outage."

It takes a few minutes to get up and into the kitchen. It's dark, but he knows where the fridge is anyway. When he comes back with two beers Gardener has his phone in hand. She frowns down at it. "You have several voicemails here from some HR department."

"Nosy." He sets the bottles on the coffee table and swipes the phone from her. "Thought I deleted those."

"If it's your consult, they want paperwork from you." She picks up one of the beers. "You might look into hiring a personal assistant."

Greg dumps the phone on the coffee table and grabs the other beer. "Mind your own business."

"You are my business. And you still haven't answered my question. Why did you use a gag?"

He should have seen that coming; his woman is nothing if not tenacious. "I wanted to shut you up. Wish I had one now."

"Hmm, a partial truth at least." Gardener takes a long swallow of beer. "Beyond the need for an equal exchange, I think you're anxious about your new work setup. It's possible that means you're using the holiday and my actions as an excuse to push away your feelings."

"Oh balls," he scoffs, but that little tingle at the back of his neck tells him she's right. He's ignored the tightness in his gut and the moments of apprehension that have popped up with increasing frequency over the last week or so; it's nothing new, anytime he switches jobs or gets fired he feels the same thing, but this time it's been worse than usual. Still, it hasn't been hard to set the dread aside, with everything else that's gone on.

"Now tell me why you used the gag." Gardener sips her beer. Greg glares at her, exasperated by this egregious display of persistence.

"I just said I wanted to shut you up. Still do."

"You could have told me to remain silent and I would have obeyed, as you know well." She watches him in the firelight. "You felt a need to control someone."

"Maybe I did," he snaps, uncomfortable now. "So what? You agreed to it."

"That I did, and without a safe word. You didn't even ask for one."

Of course she'd throw that in his face. "I . . . I forgot."

Gardener nods. "I believe you. It's just interesting that you did." She's not angry or even upset, but Greg knows that expression. She won't let this go. "Why do you think you did that?"

"To make you ask stupid questions! I—I don't know!" He lurches to his feet and limps over to the fireplace. The room is still warm, but he feels a need to stay near a source of heat and light.

"Gregory." Gardener's voice is quiet. "Do you trust me?"

"Back to that again." He winces at the bitterness in his words.

"And we'll keep coming back to it, because you need to re-draw the lines and make sure things are the way you perceive them to be. It's all right, you have legitimate reasons to test someone's integrity. So—let's lay things out in simple terms. I trust you. Do you trust me?"

He thinks of her in his bed—their bed now, just as the four-poster in her apartment is theirs as well—bound and silenced, yet willing to obey without hesitation. "Yes."

"Good." She gets up and comes toward him, but stops a few feet away. "What do you think will happen if you tell me you're worried about this change in your life?"

He stares into the fire. "Don't know," he mutters, though that's a lie.

"Do you think I'd lecture you, demand certain rules be obeyed, expect you to do what I tell you to?"

"You said I need an assistant," he throws at her. "You're already making decisions for me."

"I suggested you look into the idea, but that decision is yours to make, not mine." Gardener comes over to stand by the fire. "It's all right to be apprehensive. It's also fine to tell me when you're worried. I'm a good listener, you know." She takes the last two steps and puts her arms around him, draws him in. "You don't have to do this by yourself. Maybe someday you'll finally figure that out," she offers him a slight smile. He stands in the circle of her embrace, much as he did the previous evening. To his astonishment he feels the same relief now as he did then.

"I've never done this before," he hears himself say. "Never . . . never worked outside a department or . . . or a hospital practice."

"There are pros and cons." Gardener rubs his back, slow and gentle. "The paperwork's a pain, but you can decide your own schedule. And you can have someone do your accounting and taxes, in fact it's better to have a CPA do them. I can give you some recommendations. The guy who does my accounts is reliable and he doesn't charge a fortune for quarterly reports."

Her matter-of-fact tone reassures him. Greg peers down at her. "You think you're so smart."

"I know I'm so smart." She rests her hands on his butt, cops a feel on both cheeks. "Let's go to bed."

"We just had sex a couple of hours ago," he points out.

"Beds can be used for more things than making love." He can hear the laughter in her soft voice. "We can put on an extra blanket so we don't get cold."

Gardener puts out the candles and banks the fire while he takes the empty beer bottles to the kitchen and brings back a flashlight. When she comes in he's already under the covers, but sits up when he sees she has a three-wick pillar candle in one hand and a plate piled with crackers and cheese and cookies in the other. "My wrist is bothering me, so you must be hurting more as well," she says, as she sets the candle on the night stand. "We might as well have a snack before taking some meds."

"Better hope I don't kick you out for dumping crumbs in the sheets," he says to mock her, but he munches on crackers and cheddar all the same as Gardener peels off her clothes and climbs in with him. Once she's settled she takes a gingersnap and eases into her pillows, her body warm and pliant against his; the night ahead doesn't look quite so uncomfortable now. Greg even takes his pills with some of the water she offers him from the carafe she keeps on her side of the bed. In the soft candlelight he can see she's tired, but she's relaxed at his side—content, that's the word. The knowledge is pleasant, try as he might to push it away. Maybe he doesn't push too hard. He's earned this, and so has she. They've been through a lot together over the last month in particular.

"What do you do the day after Thanksgiving?" she says, and takes another cookie.

"Sleep in and mock everyone who's out in bad weather, spending too much money on Christmas." He makes a cracker-cheese stacker.

"I don't know. Shopping might be fun."

"Fine, feel free. I'll stay home and you can pick up a pizza."

Gardener finishes the cookie. "We could do that. Or I could make a cassoulet." She stretches a bit. "This weather is perfect for it."

Greg's mouth waters at the thought. "We're out of salt pork."

"And we need garlic sausage too." She puts her hand on his arm, strokes his skin with a light, circular touch. "Let's go to Reading Terminal. We can have a late breakfast and buy some croissants for the weekend too. And that coffee we like. With caffeine this time."

"A bribe to get me out in public. Nice." But he doesn't really mind. The thought of shopping with her actually seems . . . doable. And that's as far as he'll go. "Can't have a cassoulet without some kind of fermented grape juice to go with it."

"I've got a bottle of Domaine Armand Rousseau that's been waiting for the right evening." The casual tone doesn't fool him. He peers at her in mild astonishment.

"You're willing to drop a thousand bucks on a bottle of Grand Cru burgundy and then have it with a casserole?"

"It'll be a really good casserole," she says, and offers him a cheeky smile. "Does that appease your puritanical streak?"

"Huh." He settles in next to her and brushes cracker crumbs from his chest. "No doubt we'll stop off at your accountant's office on this little shopping expedition. Not to mention a temp agency."

"If you want to." She sounds unconcerned, a little sleepy. "See how you feel in the morning."

"'kay," he says, more to himself than her. "Yeah . . . all right."

It's in the small hours when Greg is wakened by something—a noise. He lies there, somewhat muzzy and disoriented by the meds he's taken; at last it dawns on him that the power's back on. The click of the radiator brought him out of sleep. He stretches a bit, cautious as always not to disturb his damn leg, and turns his head. Dana lies curled up next to him, huddled under the blankets. In the soft candlelight he can see her hand on the pillow. Her slender fingers curve in a gentle arc, their grace inherent even relaxed in sleep. He remembers the feel of her touch on his face, his chest, his hips . . . Her love is manifest there, in the gentleness and respect she shows, yes—but also in the way she embraces all of him, as if he is something precious to her, something to cherish. No one has ever really done that before; even with Stacy sex was more recreational, not an overt statement of emotion or attitude. He never expected that anyway—but now he has it, and it amazes him to realize someone holds him dear, and necessary. It's frightening too, because she's invested in him to a large extent and if he hurts her, it'll go to the core. And he knows he'll hurt her, he's done it already. But she's agreed to this; she understands what she's taking on, for the most part. When he fucks up, she'll deal. It's wrong to know and depend on it, he understands that, but he's glad all the same. She won't expect him to be something he's not. And he'll do the same for her.

"Mmmm . . ." Dana peeks out of her nest. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Power's on." He moves closer, slides his hand over her hip as he eases in to spoon behind her. His leg gives a slight tremor, but subsides when he settles in.

"Shall I blow out the candles?"

"Leave 'em." He strokes her hair. "Go back to sleep."

She makes a little noise of assent and drifts off. He follows her in the golden, wavering light, unsure of the future, but perhaps ready at last to take a step forward to meet it.